make today great

Month: August 2013

Here are 10 things I hate about you. <— because I know how much you love 90s teen movies and modern Shakespeare.

1. You get hair everywhere, and I have sympathy for this. I really do. I’m a girl. I used to have hair long hair. I get it. But you don’t clean up your hair from the bathroom floor… Okay, I never did either, but still.

2. You make me get up early every morning. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, all of the sudden having an ear itch that must be scratched as soon as the sun appears in the sky, or even a little before. But you’re stealthy, I’ll give you that. While other dogs hop on their owners’ beds and lick faces, you stay on your doggie bed, and make your collar jingle like it’s the most accidental sound in the world. Well played.

3. Last winter you chewed up my favorite pair of heels. No, I’m not over it. And the worst part was that you didn’t even chew them completely, making me keep a pair of chewed heels for two months wondering if they were salvageable. And then you found them again and made sure they weren’t. Thanks for that.

4. You do that thing at the dog park when you get excited, where you roll around in the dirt. Listen, I barely want to give myself a shower most days.

5. Sometimes I walk to the store with you and tie you up outside while I run in, and it literally makes me run through the store because I’m so worried someone’s going to steal you.

6. When people avoid you, in a way that’s very “I hate dogs,” it makes me not trust them… actually, thanks.

7. I know I mentioned the shoes, but let’s be honest, last week’s classy job to the crotch of my newest jeans was really your pièce de résistance.

8. Do you know how expensive your dog food is? So it’s not as expensive as human food, but couldn’t you just eat the neighbor’s cat or something? I want to buy new shoes and jeans.

9. You name is ridiculous. I realize this could be considered my fault, but you’re the one that looks like an “Estelle Getty.”

10. You really stink at posing for pictures, no matter how many vogue poses I show you.

Now, I know you probably expected a Julia Stiles turn here at the end. I would suddenly tell you that I love that you get me outside everyday, give me kisses each day, and are so excited to see me when I get home. Maybe I’d go on to say that this whole living by myself would be a great disaster without you, that you are more precious to me now than when I first carried you home inside my sweatshirt, that we can listen to Michael Bolton and have a connection deeper than woman and dog. But I won’t, partly because that last one was weird and also because, Estelle Getty, you’re a dog, and it’s really freaking me out that you’re reading. So stop.

The Hunger Games school semester has begun! And I’ve never been more relieved to go to school in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always liked school (yeah, I was that kid), and I’ve always relished summer break. However, this summer was… how to describe? difficult? a learning experience? glorious moments of fun encompassed by long droughts of sub-par? lonely? I think I’ll stick with a necessary window of growth and maturing, or at least, that’s how I hope to pigeon-hole it in my memoir.

This was my first summer away from home. I know what you’re thinking, “Hils, you’re a little old to be homesick for one summer, don’t you think?” And someone else drones on, “Like cha, didn’t you ever go to camp?” And here’s what I tell you: Don’t call me Hils. You don’t know me! Just kidding. Call me whatever you want, except Frida (all unibrow jokes are a low blow). I am a little old for a lot of things, like how happy riding a bicycle makes me or buying underwear in a package. Get over it. Some things I will probably do forever, and I’m okay with keeping one foot in childhood for the rest of my life. And it’s taken me until now to truly be okay, if not reassured, with the fact that I missed my family this summer. I missed grilled burgers (food first), swimming, hearing about the carnival in my hometown that I never go to (because ferris wheels shouldn’t collapse to fit into a truck), watching The Price Is Right with my brothers, going to the zoo with my sister, helping my nieces ride bikes, singing in the kitchen with my whole family, and watching my Mom and Dad sip coffee on the deck. I missed out on all of that this summer, and I’m glad I’m human enough to be homesick for it. I’m also glad that it puts into perspective the reason I’m here. It must be pretty darn important to miss out on all that.

Oh, and to you “campers.” I went to camp twice, kind of. The first time, I think I was nine. I thought my mom didn’t pack my hairbrush, so I lived with a rat’s nest (worse than a bird’s) for a week, only to find the brush as I was packing up to go home. I was also taller and fatter than the other campers my age. I don’t know how that fits in here. 🙂

The second time, was Hoosier Girls State, in high school. Death. Torture. Tears. Smelly campus. That’s what I think of this experience. All I can say is, never volunteer to be the town crier (in charge of waking people up). Everyone will hate you. Summary: camp isn’t all a found-my-lost-twin-starred-in-a-musical-or-took-down-a-fit-ben-stiller experience, okay?

Don’t have much to say about the second half of this title. There’s a story there, but I’ll save it for another time. Besides, my dedicated readers reader (hi, Mom!), already knows about it.

First day of school! Someone named Hils believes in me! #SelfEncouragement

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I think about the sixties, the 1960’s that is, and I think about everyone and their mother smoking and drinking, pregnant or not. How unusual. How hilarious. Thank goodness we don’t have something that embarrassing going on in the time we live, am I right?! Then I remembered, I used to love to play with this metal container in the back seat of our van growing up. It made a super annoying sound, and being the youngest child, I flipped it open and closed very often, sure to fulfill my role of aggravating little sister. Now, it just hit me the other day what that silver container was. It was an ashtray built into the backseat of the car, so, you know, everyone in the car can smoke with the windows up and not get ashes everywhere. How hilarious. How weird. The only hope I have for this is that my neon t-shirts and stirrup pants will someday be looked upon with the same retro nostalgia of the Mad Men skirt suit. A girl can dream, and I do, often of dole whip and long hair of yesteryear…